


How we met

by blibl



Series: THE ANDERSON HOLMES SERIE [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Overdosing, Slight OOCness, no John in the first part
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-16
Updated: 2012-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-21 06:39:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/594624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blibl/pseuds/blibl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anderson is Mummy Holmes (and Mycroft's husband)...</p>
            </blockquote>





	How we met

**Author's Note:**

> Hello. I just wanted to ask you to excuse me for any mistakes that you certainly will find in this story. I am french, and I really did my best to try and correct any mistakes but there will still be some. 
> 
> I hope you will enjoy this serie all the same.

**THE ANDERSON HOLMES SERIE**

I

**“How we met”**

Anderson had never wanted an incredible life. When he was a little boy of only five, and when his three brothers were already talking about traveling and becoming astronautes or pilote, the only thing little Andy wanted was to create a family like his mom and dad had, with plenty of kids to play with and to bake good cookies everyday. 

It doesn’t look like he has succeeded when he is at work, but he is actually living the life he’s always dreamt of – even if it is with one of the most complicated man in the world.

When he comes home, his husband never really there but always aware of him being back, he will always find his eldest children – twins named Isenham and Ingham because yes, it is customary to name Holmes ‘children with old-fashioned names – dutifully working on their homeworks while their two years old little sister Baptistine will be building a castle and organizing strategy to invade other Kingdoms.

She had certainly inherited the genius DNA of the Holmes family.

But Anderson didn’t mind so much really because even if Sherlock was being a rightful jerk with him most of the time, Anderson would never forget why Sherlock was that way. And it was alright with Anderson, as long as Sherlock would never hesitate to call him when he needed help.

Anderson hadn’t become Mummy Holmes for nothing after all.

_November 2003_

He found the young man in a back alley.

He was sprawled against the far wall and was choking on his own vomit. Anderson had not hesitated though, because even if the boy – and he was a boy really, a skinny 20 years old or so – would perhaps be already dead by the time he reached him, he couldn’t just turn his head away and keep walking.

And he clenched his teeth as two middle aged women caught sight of the boy and kept walking without so much as a backward glance. Sometimes, Anderson wanted to perform autopsies on the living.

He let himself fall on the floor just beside the boy and quickly laid him on his side while fumbling for his phone.

The boy was alive. Anderson began talking softly to him and couldn’t help running a comforting hand through his incredibly thick black locks while calling 999. He spoke quickly and professionally to the receptionist he got on the phone and hanged up afterwards.

The boy had stopped seizing and Anderson just had to make sure he didn’t die on him. He laid him back on the floor and slapped lightly his thin and white cheeks. But the boy was unconscious so Anderson couldn’t do much else than wipe vomit and tears off the boy’s face with his handkerchief.

“Well, look at you now, all clean.” He said and surprisingly the boy shook a little and opened blue-grey eyes on him. He whimpered and tried to curl on himself so Anderson helped him sit up and took his back against his chest.

“It’s alright; the ambulance is on its way. Why don’t you tell me your name.” He said. The boy shuddered again and his head fell farther on Anderson’s shoulder. That way, Anderson could see the fluttering eyelashes, white nose and lips of the boy.

“Freak,” he said. And Anderson raised his eyebrows and tightened his arms around the far too skinny waist. “Well, that’s actually not really a name, you know. I am sure your parents didn’t have such a sick sense of humour.” The boy – Freak – tensed and whimpered again as a wave of dizziness certainly washed over him.

“Little Monster. But I prefer Freak.” The shaking voice said, and tears were running on the boy’s cheeks.

Anderson frowned deeply and breathed in relief when he heard the sound of the ambulance getting closer. “Well, then, your mother certainly don’t deserve to be called a mother. You seem quite fine to me.”

“No. No, I am not. I am a freak,"the boy said. And then, he looked up at Anderson and began to describe his whole day in three or four quick glances and frowns. Then ambulance men were there, and the boy was being taken away from a rather shaken Anderson.

However, the man stood up quickly when he really realised the boy wasn’t there anymore and ran to the ambulance, jumping in and telling dubious ambulance men that he was a doctor and a friend. He then slipped his hand in one of the boy’s long one and squeezed.

“I am sure you’ve got a real name, can you tell it to me?” An anxious frown appeared on his face and the young man pinched his lips. “I like Freak, I chose it.” He muttered.

“Ok, then. Do you have anyone to contact other than your Mother?” Anderson asked in a gentle voice.

“Why did you stop doing post mortem? Being a forensic is boring compared to dissecting bodies.” Anderson smiled and nodded. “I know. But I like being somewhere else than in a morgue. I still do some post mortem, though. You’re interested in anatomy?”

“I am interesting in every kind of experiments,” the boy answered.

“Well, that’s good. So anyone to contact?” Anderson asked again. The boy’s eyes filled with tears and his hand gripped Anderson’s more tightly.

“My brother. Mycroft Holmes. But I don’t think he likes me very much anymore so maybe he won’t care.”

“Alright then, I’ll make sure he is called and we’ll see. Go to sleep now, you seem to be exhausted.” The young man nodded but held Anderson’s gaze some more. He licked his lips and swallowed.

“Tomorrow or wherever I wake up, I’ll be mean to you. I’ll be insulting and telling you all kind of terrible stuff about your boring life and your lack of money to keep your flat and your dying father and all that – I’ll be horrible to you,” he whispered quickly, his eyes full of fear and shame.

Anderson smiled and nodded. “Well, I have a bad temper, so I may react harshly for some things, but I’ll keep in mind that it’s just to protect yourself.”

The boy’s face fell a little. “It’s not.”

Anderson nodded and smiled again and then the boy fell into a deep, restless sleep.

 

 

 

Mycroft Holmes wasn’t that hard to find. Actually, Anderson didn’t have to go farther than the hospital entrance to find him. The man – early thirties, three pieces suit, umbrella - - tired eyes, worried, desperate? – was already waiting for them when they came in.

Anderson stayed behind while the boy was taken away. The man approached him quickly and extended his hand.

“Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock’s brother. How is he?” He asked in an urgent tone. Anderson took the offered hand and his eyes wandered on the door through which Sherlock – so his name was Sherlock then? – had disappeared.

“He is alive, and he’ll live. He is very very depressed though, calls himself Freak because he chose it, or so he says. I am still not sure he is relieved not to be dead,” he explained.

Mycroft Holmes looked blank and he sighed heavily. “The last time he wasn’t,” he said in a whisper and gone was the perfectly well-mannered man, here was a shaken and desperate brother.

“I am sorry.” Anderson said. “Have you tried detox, or therapy?” He asked. Mycroft looked up at him and Anderson was suddenly caught in the bluest eyes he’d seen in a long time.

He cleared his throat and nodded when Mycroft answered that yes, he had tried everything but that therapy with Sherlock always ended with therapists needing a therapy themselves and Sherlock disappearing into thin air. He hadn’t stayed in detox more than one day and a half.

“Ok, and have you try to take care of him on your own?” Anderson asked. The man arched one eyebrow and frowned.

“How do you mean?”

“Well, sometimes, in this kind of situation, what addicted people really need is to be taken care of by their family. Of course, they’ll deny it, and fight, and yell – they will threaten you to disappear again or to kill themselves and so on…But the truth is they won’t do it. Not all of them of course, but I can tell that Sherlock is one of them.”

“You mean that I should be taking care of the detoxification of my brother myself?” Mycroft said.

“With the help of a doctor or a nurse, yes. He asked for you…” Mycroft’s eyes widened and he took a step back. And what a strange family they seemed to be. “When I asked him who to contact, he told me about you, but he also told me that he didn’t think that you liked him very much anymore and that you certainly wouldn’t care.”

At that, the man actually had to sit down and he took his head in his hands. “He also told me about his mother calling him ‘little Monster’.” Anderson said softly sitting beside Mycroft.

The man looked up and his eyes were those of a haunted child. “Yes, yes,” he breathed, and Anderson was worried he was going into shock.

“Would you help?” Mycroft whispered. And again, Anderson fell into Mycroft’s desperate and pleading blue eyes and really, how could he say no? He had felt more alive taking care of Sherlock for twenty minutes than during all of the time he had been working as a forensic.

“Ok, I’ll do it, but I won’t be able to be there at all times, I need a job and…”

“You’ll be paid twice as much as your current salary and you’ll still have your job when you come back.” Mycroft interrupted. Anderson raised his eyebrows and smiled.

“Oh, very well…Then yes, let’s go take care of your little brother.”

So They helped Sherlock a lot and after three months, Sherlock hadn’t any drugs in his system anymore. He was being a stubborn child all the same though.

“You can’t just turn your brother’s kitchen into a laboratory!” Anderson exclaimed as he watched Sherlock wash a fresh liver – and Anderson didn’t even know where he had gotten hold of it ( _Her name was Molly and she was a student in post-mortem medico-legal expertise at St Bart’s hospital_ ).

“He barely uses it,” Sherlock just answered and he put the organ on the breadboard before taking hand of the meat knife.

“I use it,” Anderson said. “Yes, but as long as you don’t take your courage in both hands and finally snog my brother, you don’t really live here - So not a valid argument, sorry.”

Anderson’s cheeks burned and he clenched his teeth. “Sherlock.”

“Face it Anderson, you can’t face my brother without little pink bubbles drifting around your head. Oh, and don’t worry, he has certainly known it from the first time you two met.”

“Yes. I never doubted that he knew, thank you,”he said in a rather pathetic voice – which actually sounded quite normal, but he had Sherlock as an interlocutor.

The young man – and he was still very skinny and very pale – raised his head and pinched his lips. He sighed and put the knife down. “Listen Anderson, my brother has had as much encounter with anyone from the real world as me – meaning, none at all. I have learnt how to interact with normal people because I needed drugs and the only way to find them was to socialize with those poeple, so I did. Mycroft has never had such experience alright? The only other persons he has really ever been in company of are politicians or economists, or old magistrates– or the people in our service. That’s about it; he has other people interacting with the plebs.”

“I so appreciate to be referred as part of the plebs. Jesus Sherlock, my heart is filled with love right now.”Anderson answered, sitting up in the high chair at the kitchen-turned-laboratory table.

“I am just telling you the truth. You yourself are not even above the most average man. You are a plain stupid little man among other plain stupid little men.”

“Freak, that’s quite enough now,” Anderson said still in a calm voice.

Sherlock tensed a little and his eyes met Anderson’s ones. And that was their thing – whenever Sherlock was insulting or belittling Anderson, the man could use that word to express his annoyance. It had been Sherlock’s idea and Anderson had agreed with some reluctance. The word was rarely uttered in any other form than a tired sigh.

Sherlock didn’t say anything though, frowning lightly and biting at his lower lip.

“Fine, whatever – tell me what you’re working on.” Anderson asked then, knowing that Sherlock wouldn’t apologise. Sherlock smiled a little – the cheeky brat – and raised the knife again. “I am going to cut the liver in two and boil one piece in boiling white wine, while placing the other one in cold white wine.”

“What are you trying to accomplish in doing so?” Anderson asked, and it was interesting, really. Sherlock had always crazy ideas, but they weren’t bad or anything. They were more like questions anyone could ask themselves but never dared checking out because it seemed meaningless.

Sherlock didn’t care about meaningless. He wanted an answer; he had a liver, why wouldn’t he do it?

“I want to see if a liver can get cirrhosis without being attached to a living body.”

“Ok, try not to cut your finger off, Sherlock,” Anderson said.

Sherlock stilled again and moved the knife a tiny bit on the left, away for his middle finger.

The corner of his lips curled up. “Yes Mummy,” He whispered.

Anderson sighed and smiled slightly, watching Sherlock finally cut the liver.

“So, what do you think I should do with your brother?” He asked hesitantly. “Do you know if he is interested?”

Again, Sherlock put the knife down. He breathed heavily and walked to the fridge, collecting some ice cubs from the freezer. He put them in a box before carefully picking the two liver pieces up and placing them in it.

He then put the box back on the last shelf of the fridge. “Not up to experiment anymore?”

“I don’t want to throw up on a fresh liver and you are asking me for romantic advices regarding my brother and yourself.”

“Sherlock, please.” Anderson ran his hand through his hair before glaring at Sherlock.

“Oh come on Anderson! I am fine, but you’re still living here. Mycroft hasn’t even told you that you could go back to work or move out whenever you want. He’s found you a job, which is currently filled by interns so you can come back and take it whenever you want– he also got you a flat, not far from here. You could leave Anderson. He knows that, you know that. But you’re both fucking waiting for the other to make a move. He knows you want him – god, I am really going to throw up – but he won’t come to you because he has absolutely no social skills – “ He eyed Anderson and rolled his eyes.

“Yes, he got use to you as a ‘friend’ here, but he is interested in more than that but don’t want to lose that friendship. He’s never had any relationship he actually wanted. So as you’re too dumb to see for yourself what my brother is feeling for you, I’ve told you, and now, you can run to him like a loyal puppy, jump him, and leave me out of it entirely.”

Anderson was frozen – in anger or astonishment? – for some time before he managed to smile.

He then walked around the table and raised his hand to put it on Sherlock’s neck. He made him bend down a little and kissed his forehead. “Thank you, Sherlock.” He said.

Sherlock held his arms out and hugged Anderson tightly for one second.

“Well, that the least I can do, Mummy,” he answered with a smile before stepping back.

Anderson rolled his eyes and nodded. “And that’s huge. Thank you, Sherlock.”

_December 2003_

At first it was a game. Well no, at first it was in the throes of cold fever and feverish slumber and delirium tremens.

Mycroft would stay behind, unable to bear seeing, at first, his little brother in such a state, almost – really – being the one to bring him the drugs he needed so much to take away his pain.

But Anderson would severely reprimand Mycroft for his thoughts while holding Sherlock against him, running his hand through his hair and singing quiet lullabies in his ears.

One day, Sherlock was shivering and whimpering and clenching and unclenching his fists, sprawled on Anderson whose back was resting on the headboard when he opened his pain-filled eyes.

“Thank you, Mummy,” he croaked. Anderson’s eyes held Sherlock’s gaze for some time and when he was sure Sherlock was recognising him, he smiled. “You’re welcome, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiled a little and went back to sleep. After that, whenever Sherlock would wake up, he would be calmer and more peaceful than he had been until now.

The worst of the withdrawal had come and gone, Mycroft’s fears had been tamed and Anderson’s worries had been proven wrong.

Sherlock had stayed, fought the pain, the craving and the longing to kill himself and was now capable of eating, showering or even talking. Not that the latter was necessarily a blessing.

But they had developed a sort of close parenting relationship – Sherlock desperately needed someone to look up at, to not fear, to be close to and show his pain and his brightness, and to yell at for everything that had been done to him and to not fear to be rejected afterwards.

And Anderson had become that person, and even if he would have preferred being called ‘Daddy ‘ he was quite alright with being ‘Mummy’ nonetheless.

And he was also terribly relieved to see each Holmes brothers doing better daily.

He just prayed not to be called ‘Mummy’ by Mycroft – never ever. 

Fin 


End file.
